Across the Worlds
by Kitty Ryan
Summary: A neargrown Jory starts to feel, and never wants to stop. A small love story. Slash.
1. Touch

**Across the Worlds**

K. Ryan, 2004.

_For the only person in the world for whom I would ever write a crossover, because I love her. _

* * *

Jorality Bacanor was working alone, for once.

A small figure in a long kitchen that was filled with pitted wooden benches, huge, cream painted storage cupboards and larders that reached the ceiling, she was leaning against the great iron range, waiting for water to boil.

Jory knew that water _always _took longer to come to the boil when you watched it, but she did it anyway—glaring at it defiantly as slow trickles of cinnamon-scented steam coiled about her face, dampening long curls of hair and staining them dark. She faced the water squarely, eyebrows drawn together, biting the inside of her cheek, just daring it to play any tricks under _her _watch.

In reality, though, the young cookery-mage felt no impatience. She was here, in Olennika's kitchen, on her own time, all real work behind her. Jory was working on her own projects, that evening—food for the sake of food: pretty and delicate and special. This was an undertaking that she suspected her teacher and sometime-idol would consider hopelessly wasteful. While she was standing, still eyeballing that water, and felt thepale, cold twilight that came in from the kitchen's square windowsto meetthe inside candle-and-mage light in a pretty show of blue and orange, Jory didn't care about that much. Besides, Olennika had cooked for emperors—something that Jory thought of as decidedly more useless than creating nice things for oneself.

Slowly, she closed her eyes, breathing in the steam.

_…Nothing is touching me/her, yet I/she feels like someone is standing _right _at my/her back, very close. I/she can feel their breathing; shallow, warm and quick. Biting our/her lip, she/I turn I/her head slightly, meaning to look. _

_--None of that, you. Just stay…very still. _

_The voice, her voice, is soft, and breathless. She/I feel her hand slowly cover the side of my/her face, warm against my/her cheek. Gentle fingers closing her/my eye…_

Jory shuddered softly, blushing. The dreams had come back. Wonderful, beautiful daydreams that she'd had almost from the day she turned seventeen, which confused her as much as delighted her.

_...another arm slips easy around her/my waist, pulling me back. She/I shiver, as I/she brushes against a body. Warm, so different from mine/hers. _

_Beautiful. _

_Now, I/she feels lips press against the back of my neck. Lingering, then pulling away to kiss again, though lower down, now--on my/her shoulder. A kiss, a nip, sharp and fast, soothed by …oh help her/me…a lick. _

_Does that sound belong to her/me? It seems so strange. So…she/I give up thinking, for now. Time just to feel. _

_--Who are you?_

_They don't hear her/me, but they keep me/her quiet, as their grip changes, and their hand slips upward, fingers barely there…was she _laughing

Fragments of feeling, of sensations and moments in time that Jory knew _couldn't _be real, but were, somehow. It didn't even make sense in her own head, but she thought that she might just love this secret stranger, who wouldn't leave her be.

_…She/I gasp. –_Where _are you?_

_There is no answer. Can she/I be heard?_

_--I wish I knew where you were, Kyp-curse-it. _

_--I'm _here_, of course. _Namorn!

_No response. _

_--I don't think you're Tortallan…_

_Tortallan?_

Jory groaned, frustrated. Why couldn't the other woman hear anything she said, and _what _was 'Tortallan'? Her daydream faded as she tried to think, face hot and damp from more than the now simmering pot on the stove.

Jory wished she could understand everything.

Jory wished that she didn't dream blind.

_…the voice is faint, now. Shaky in my/her ear. –Why are you doing this to me? Do you even know my _name_? It's Aly. Who are you? Speak to me._

_I/she tries to turn again, though, and almost manage it. My/her lips bump against the stranger's. _

_Shock. _

_Delight. _

_And Realisation. I/she pauses for a moment, just revelling in my/her ingenuity. _

_Then she/I kisses her again, properly this time, and speaks into it. –Jorality. I'm…mmm...Jory. And I… love you._

_The stranger, not so strange now, jerks back. I/she can feel it. _

_--I…felt that! _

Jory opened her eyes, and the water was boiling.

_--I love you, too. _

Somewhere else entirely, Alianne of Pirate's Swoop wished that she didn't dream deaf.

But she was smiling.

* * *

I own nothing, except my own feelings, which often think they own _me._

Love,

Jory.


	2. Year

**Across the Worlds**

_2: Year_

K. Ryan, 2005.

Cleaver in hand, body leaning against the waist-high bench top, crinkled-brown curls throwing off the violet and red-stripped headscarf she'd picked out that morning, Jorality Bacanor surveyed her kingdom.

The galley of Nat Moykep's _Magpie_.

It was a new domain in every sense of the word: so new that the scents of flax oil and varnish were still an astringent, eye-watering presence in her nostrils. New enough for tiny specs of sawdust to cling to her knives whenever she took them out of their new casing; tacked to the wall with iron nails and made of a pretty, curl-grained lauan wood Olennika had given her as a parting gift, the small kitchen of her brother-in-law's ship was to be her home for over a year.

Straightening, the young woman crossed the small space between her bench and the large copper soup-kettle—more a cauldron really—from which she would have to do most of her work. It was somehow a strange, imposing object; Jory ran her fingers along the rim and made it ring out, sound filling the room and drifting out to for' castle. It was going be a cramped journey. Matazi; Olennika, they'd all told her so. Kol insisted that she'd be frustrated and finally bored silly through working with heavy rationed food that was chosen for nutritional value and durability over taste. Even in Blackfly bog cookery mages didn't have to deal with ships biscuit. Jory had given up telling her father that she didn't think she'd mind.

_Let him predict what he wants_, she thought, not quite smiling. _At least he let me go._

All of Namorn were talking about the banker's daughter; how she'd convinced her parents to let her go traipsing of on one of the Moykep's trade expeditions, working as ship's cook. Why Mateus had allowed her even to apply was a mystery, until the curious speakers remembered that her twin was married to his first-mate son, and how she'd "practically built _Magpie _herself from the ground up and all." A trim little vessel with a teak skeleton and held together with iron and treenails of fragrant locust, which still gave off a fragrance in the right wind, it was that immaculate. The shipgraced Airgi's harbour, but why the Bacanor girl was gracing _Magpie_ was a question she'd always left half-unanswered.

—_New places, mama!_ she'd always said, pouting and laughing; stating, cajoling_. I want to be part of it. Need to. Isn't it a grand thing to have an explorer daughter?_

Matazi wanted to give a flat no, and at first she did. Her child had changed over two years, and her arguments didn't stick. The cheerful, careless dreams of exploring fitted a younger Jory, along with her crazy-patterned skirts and scarves and her complete lack of sense when it came to things like mixing silver and gold. They did _not_ fit the new Jory who'd crept in to take her place. The quiet one, with deeper smiles and slower laughs; inexplicable moments of staring longingly out a window. Any window, often toward the sea, always toward a horizon. Matazi felt the truth in her daughter's 'need', but she didn't understand it. That frightened her. Jory as an adult frightened her. A collection of uncertainties held captive by railing and galley walls. Why, asked the mother, was _this_ the first thing her child wanted to do with her legal grown-up life?

Jory, now climbing out onto the foredeck, couldn't have answered her. Yawing hugely, jaw cracking, she watched Nat direct some of his mean to stowing the hold. She'd thrown herself into learning ship language, all strange abbreviations and incomprehensible almost-imagery. Nia had helped her, all weary love and disapproval, silent while saying everything she needed to. It was a sweet punishment she'd inflicted, building _Magpie _with such loving care. Jory felt her presence every time she brushed against an ebony inlay. Every time she stepped out onto planking and smelt oiled pine. Nia filled her whenever she grasped one of the new spoons and ladles: exquisite mixtures of alder, boxwood and slightly acerbic bewilderment.

Nia was standing on the docks now, child at her knee. Mute. Jory didn't look at her; she knew she was there.

Closing her eyes, she shivered as she felt lips brush her cheek.

—_I was wondering when you'd come. _

No response. Jory knew she couldn't hear her. Instead, she leaned into the warmth that was now at her back.

—_Hello sweet. Mmph. I've missed you_.

Aloud, faint. —_Missed you_.

—_Go on, turn around. I want to look at you._

She did, her back now pressed to the railing. —_I wish I could _see she mouthed, letting the invisible, beloved presence read her lips. Over two years, they'd gotten quite good at it.

—_You know me, silly_. A sudden, teasing pressure against her breasts. Teasing fingers tracing down her throat. Jory whimpered, and then glared, the part of her that could feel these things pulling the other woman down to kiss her.

—_I can't stand this for much longer_, she managed, lips against skin, just as they'd been the first time they'd managed to understand the other's speech.

Stillness. An abrupt pulling away. —_You think it's easier for me? You're _impossible_! It's almost too easy to believe that your 'Namorn' just doesn't exist!_

Jorality shuddered; chin jerking up, hands falling to bunch at her hips.

—_It does_, she snapped. _It does and I'm leaving it. To find _**you**

The words echoed, because she they'd slipped from her throat and into the real, heavy air. Loud enough for people to look up from there work and stare at the flushed, fey creature standing on deck, her headscarf three-quarters off and dangling, caught in her bejewelled copper earrings. Loud enough even for the phantom Tortallan, who caught those words in the chest and stood stunned and silent.

Jory blushed and took a tentative step forward, to be enfolded by arms that were barely there.

—_Happy Anniversary_.

When everything had faded, all the girl could do was stare over the prow of the ship, eyes straining as she tried to see across the worlds.


	3. End

**Across the Worlds**

**Notes:** This has always been what the summary says. A small love story. Mostly my own, and so it has probably been far too personal and strange for most people. Snatches of this chapter in particular are taken from fairy recent events, even if they have been switched around some to suit narrative, characterization, and other such things. Some people, however, seem to have enjoyed it, and found something in it despite (or perhaps because of) this, and so _Across the World's _final chapter is in part dedicated to Drop Your Oboe, along with a sincere apology that it was not complete by late June as promised.

This is, of course, dedicated to my own Aly—Alison of the Faeries—without whom there would be no story, because there would be nothing to tell. Thirty months together, six in the same 'world', or, in our case, hemisphere. You give me hope, along with so much else, and you have waited far too long for this to end up where it has.

I love you.

* * *

"What sort of answer is '_going out_'? You know better than that, my girl."

"I have to _go_. I'll come back later."

Jorality was not very good at locations, and so Alianne had never actually been _told _that _if_ the her ship was to come in that it would dock at Port Caynn, but the young woman felt that it would. Impossible things were already happening; it wasn't so much of a stretch to add to them. Aly didn't bother trying to bait her mother; there was no time. Nerves ate at her, clutched at a spot just above her liver and lodged in her gullet so she had to hyperventilate through a throat full of some pulsing, heaving mass. She felt white. _At least_, she thought, more hysterically the closer she came to the port town, _that's going to set off my hair._

* * *

"What if she doesn't…like me?"

Jory's knees, decided the body attached to Jory's knees, long before anyone had sighted land, hurt more than the rest of her, and the rest of her hurt quite a bit. Why it was her knees that ached so after months at sea, she wasn't entirely sure. Perhaps they were so sick of feeling terror mixed with utter boredom that they decided to play up simply as a means of filling in time.

Terror mixed with boredom. That was the journey. Jory never wanted to smell travel food again, much less eat or cook with it. And she had just gotten used to believing there was no hope of land, ever, and that she was the worst kind of idiot, following a voice that had never been real, ever, and that everything had been for nothing, when _The Magpie_ encountered civilization. A strange, flat, over bleached place made up of too much plaster and stone, and weather that changed from squalling to hideously, garishly bright within half an hour.

"Caynn…" she'd whispered aloud, staring at the port sign as the ship was dragged closer, half expecting one of the seemingly endless crowd milling on the wharves to raise their still-tiny heads and recognize her. "Aly…"

* * *

_I'm going to be late, I'm going to be late, curse it--I'm going to be so bloody late and if she's real and there she is going to _kill_ me. I am so LATE._

It took far too many backstreets, Aly decided, to get from Port Caynn proper to the actual, crucial port. _Aunt Thayet! I'll get her to persuade Uncle Jon to rebuilt…I'm going to be _late. _Oh, what if she doesn't _like _me?"_

She could barely see in front of her. People's faces were as indistinguishable as the blank front-pieces of the buildings. This one was tall, short, male-shaped, female, a child blur…there was no _water _anywhere. How could she know if she were too late if she couldn't even drown herself in the port like a proper broken-hearted heroine?

The crowd was growing thicker, mumbling and muttering and generally being an utter nuisance. Blocking her way so Aly couldn't see anything beyond her nose, and all she could hear was her own blood in her ears and, "Oooh, _that's _a right strange ship. N'er seen nothing—how can it be _all _wood?"

Aly swallowed. 'Right strange ship'—the words drowned out half her nerves and she actively pushed her way through, ignoring curses and bruised ribs and toes. At first everything was still this man's shoulder and that woman's overlarge hat that got in her way, but soon she could see chinks of sluggish, muddied blue-grey through the humans, and the ends of jetties, and one tired, wan looking woman with mismatched earrings, a coat with the buttons done up all wrong, and what was quite possibly the maddest tangle of ringlets ever seen in her world and countless others. The woman was just staggering off the boat, limping and unbalanced, looking around, obviously for _something. _

Someone. Aly's breath caught. She had to close her eyes to will herself to yell.

"Jory! Jory! Over here!"

* * *

She wasn't crying, and that felt strange. All Jory could do as she heard the voice—_that _voice, so dear and familiar—was smile until it hurt her face, and she actually gasped when she looked up and _saw_ her. Her. Aly. Her Aly. Not a picture made up from imagined touches and sounds, but a proper vision. With colours. She laughed, more nervous and than more confident than before, all at once; hands at her breast until they were opening up around her and there was just the impact of both holding and being held and there was nothing else in the whole world except this, and she knew the real world would come back but there wasn't any reason to fear it, because she had Aly Cooper in her arms _now_, and that would always be real.Hr>

Somehow it was right that the first words Aly heard in Jory's voice were these:

"Your hair really is blue! I never did believe you."

* * *

Hours had gone by. They had a room. Of course, it was Jory who technically had the room, Aly was just there with her, in it, sitting on the narrow white bed and watching as Jory bent her head over a book she had found in clutter Aunt Daine had left behind, months ago now, and saved for her. Jory had told her once that she liked strange animals. She certainly seemed absorbed in the detailed sketches of Carthak's wildlife, though Aly had no idea why a giraffe should make her blush, or look away from her awkwardly.

"I…" she was sitting so close their shoulders and hips were touching. As she leaned forward to take her hand, Aly brushed against Jory's breast accidentally. She bit her lip; Jory made a small noise, looking straight at her again with wide eyes.

"I want to kiss you," she finished in a whisper, and Jory nodded, smiling again—a nervous, almost hysterical smile, but a real one. She was leaning forward.

And Aly kissed her.

* * *

Though even Nia would never believe it, Jory had never been kissed before. Not in any way that counted. Sitting with Aly in that perfect too-small space, she had no idea what to expect and it terrified her. What if she got it wrong? What if she had bad breath, or fainted? Or…oh, help, _what if she wasn't any good at it_? Jory couldn't bear to not be any good at it; not after so many years of slowly coming to realize all the things she longed to do, with absolute proficiency, with _skill_, to this woman, so she almost prayed not to have to try, even though want and tiredness and confusion had been steadily leeching everything but silence and tension out of the room. Even as her lips against Aly's, the only thing she could do was mentally gibber. _What if I'm not_…

Oh.

The world turned sharp and breathless and wet and strange and wonderful and unsettling and _theirs_.


End file.
